


Wings

by mojo_da_jojo



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojo_da_jojo/pseuds/mojo_da_jojo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When no one else will have them, a young man finds his wings, and a viera her place. Balthier/Fran, from the beginning. Pre-FFXII.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

As silly as it sounds, Ffamran feels a sort of connection to the doomed creature.

His father is still debating the merits of aesthetic value versus practical application with the YPA representative, but Ffamran has long since tuned them out. His eyes roam the contours of newly-polished and painted chrome, the glossair rings just visible under their protective shielding, the neatly folded wings that he's seen spread gracefully out like a swan's. That particular capability requires so much Mist that Cid had to develop a brand-new variety of skystone just to power it – the only reason the GB47 is docked here, in Draklor, rather than the YPA's shipyard with the rest of this year's prototypes.

The skystone alone is worth more than the entire combined wages of Molberry District, which is no doubt why the GB47 is being scrapped – it's far too expensive to be of practical use in the Imperial skyfleet. Condemned for being exactly what they made you to be, Ffamran thinks. We have much in common.

It seems a crime to reduce such a beautiful thing to so much magicite and scrap metal.

The YPA shipwright seems to be thinking along the same lines. "She's been my pet project for six months now," he's saying. "Pity to see her go."

"Onward and upward," Cid muses, clearly already plotting a better use for the skystone he's sunk so much research into. Beneath his styled judge's helm, Ffamran scowls. The man thinks of nothing but his magicite.

"Ghis doesn't know what he's missing," the shipwright disagrees. "This lady could outrace the entire 8th fleet with the right pilot."

And suddenly, the scattered wisps of Ffamran's unfinished plans come together like a beautiful work of art.

_Onward and upward indeed._

~

It is so simple to switch Cid's keycard with his own that Ffamran finds himself on edge, sure something is bound to go wrong. His nerves sing with anticipation as he navigates the winding halls of Draklor with a quick, loping stride. Without the armor he feels strangely buoyant, as if cotton and leather aren't enough to keep him tethered to the earth.

The hangar door opens with hardly a sound, but he knows the ceiling mechanism will make enough noise to rouse the entire guard. The cockpit hatch is already open – a small blessing – and he feels a thrill of delight as he sets foot inside for the first time. There are seats enough for four, in addition to the pilot and copilot. He slings his bag into the copilot's seat, careful not to bang up his Altair – having forsaken his sword alongside his judge's armor, it is the only weapon he has.

A few switches, and the skystone hums to life, churning Mist into the engines; he sets the destination and course, and changes the flight computer to manual for liftoff. This is the shaky part of his plan – the retractable ceiling takes twenty-eight seconds to open (he's timed it a thousand times) and he has no idea how long it will take for the guards to reach the hangar. Once he's free of the building, Ffamran's confident he can make it out of Archades – he'll have a head start, and by the look of the GB47 she really can outrace any other ship – but it's those twenty-eight seconds that could make or break his plan.

Well, there's nothing else for it.

The ceiling control mechanism is inside the glass booth on the opposite side of the hangar. Cid's keycard opens this door, too, and Ffamran takes a deep breath before activating the mechanism and sprinting as fast as his sixteen-year-old legs can carry him.

Twelve seconds, and he's in the cockpit with the hatch securely closed and the glossair rings spinning just enough to lift the ship those first few feet off the ground; seven seconds later, heavily armored guards clamor through the door, and Ffamran wills his hands not to shake on the controls, turning her towards the south. He guides her as high as he dares, just above the guards' heads, and then the ceiling doors shudder to a stop and he's free, nothing between him and the night sky but air.

The GB47 flies like a dream, and he easily skims past the few Atomos that come after him – the Phon Coast opens up beneath him, waves lapping at the shore. On a whim he guides her out over the water, until all he can see is black sea and black sky and the glimmer of stars.

He flicks a switch and opens the vents, breathing in palm trees and salt air, and imagines that this is what freedom tastes like.

~

His initial thought is to head for Balfonheim, but Cid would expect that. Instead, he makes for Mt. Bur-Omisace, where he might blend in with the pilgrims on their way to see the Gran Kiltias. Not that Ffamran thinks his father has any concern for his well-being – more likely the well-being of the one-of-a-kind skystone within the GB47's depths.

He supposes he should christen her properly; he can't call her GB47 forever. On that note, he thinks, I ought to take up a new name as well.

He thinks of his mother, inexplicably – and wonders what she would think of his newfound freedom. She always did love to read him tales of heroes and outlaws, dashing rogues and charming pirates. And so his ship becomes the Strahl, in honor of his mother – it was her name before she married Cid – and he dubs himself Balthier, the leading man of her favorite play.

(He can't quite remember how it ends – but he's fairly certain that's the only one she liked in which the hero isn't a tragic one, and doesn't meet an ugly fate.)

He leaves the Strahl perched on the south face of the mountain, and activates the cloaking device Cid so thoughtfully decided to implement. Bur-Omisace is colder than he'd expected, and he shivers as he joins the crowds gathered at the temple approach.

A single night here, and then he'll move on, he tells himself – but isn't sure where.

Where does one go to reinvent himself?

There are only so many places he can take the Strahl, but it's a conspicuous ship – the only one of its kind. But Ffamran – Balthier, he reminds himself – suspects that if he can outrun the Empire for a month or so, they'll stop looking (at least in earnest.) Perhaps it would be better to lie low.

With the cloaking device active, he could leave the Strahl here and hide on foot – and the Jagd Ramooda is only a mile or so south. With a stolen airship, they'd never expect him to be in jagd territory.

Tomorrow, he decides, he will set out for the Paramina Rift, and see where his feet can lead him.

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been abandoned for the time being, but there's always the chance I'll pick it back up later.


End file.
